


Ça ne fait rien

by Kipfall



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Kindergarten & Pre-school, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Music, Christmas, M/M, Reincarnation, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 21:45:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7138493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kipfall/pseuds/Kipfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories, that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only.”<br/>― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables</p><p>Or, some things never change, even across universes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ça ne fait rien

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheyDieHoldingHands (Dustbunnies)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnies/gifts).



The first time is during detention.

A protest, administration had said, was both unnecessary and uncalled for, so he is now required to waste time that could be spent preparing for the district round of debate club or discussing economic inequality in the social justice club sitting in a classroom doing absolutely nothing.

So instead, he goes over his arguments for the practice topic (“The government should never restrict freedom of speech”, straightforward enough) in his head as the teacher marks tests, red pen firmly in hand, and shoots the occasional glare to no one in particular.

“What are you in for?” The voice breaks his concentration and he looks around the room to see who’s speaking, only for his gaze to meet that of a senior two desks to the left that he swears is vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite place him. There is no immediate shushing, so the teacher that is supposed to be supervising them must have left the room, then.

Recognition passes across his face. A smirk. “Oh, you’re the one who lead that protest yesterday. Is that what your daily routine’s like, wake up, go to school, fight against the system?” He pauses. “Or, y’know, _one_ of the systems, anyway.”

“Police brutality in schools is a major issue,” he replies, barely masking his indignance. He doesn’t know what this person wants from him – most strangers who have mentioned it either congratulated him or demeaned him, and he is doing neither.

The senior laughs, and it isn’t a pleasant sound. He also slaps his hand on the desk, as if he is laughing from the sheer hilarity of it all, even though it is clearly nothing but. “Oh my god, you’re _actually_ serious? What, you think you’re going to _change the world_ or some shit?” Annoyance creeps up from his stomach and he can feel the urge to argue every point rise up but he suppresses it. He’d only mock him more, he thinks.

“Of course,” he replies automatically with more harshness than is probably required, “and if the people make enough noise, change will come eventually.”

A snort. “Yeah, and I’m going to be robot-fighting princess when I grow up.”

“Unlike your supposed aspiration, mine is possible,” he retorts, “and I’m busy, so go bother someone else.” There are at least eight other people in the room, so why does he have to bug _him_ out of all of them?

He mock-thinks for a moment, fingers stroking an imaginary beard and pretending to stare off in the distance, then returns to a cheeky grin. “Hm...sorry, but no can do. I guess fate brought us together so I could bother you, y’know?” He tilts his head to the side, exaggerating his smile.

He glares.

“Why are _you_ here, anyway? Undermining school authority? Inappropriate behaviour?” he says, unable to keep the venom out of his voice. Someone as troublesome as _him_ would definitely be the type to do something juvenile. Drawing phallic symbols on school property comes to mind, but he doesn’t mention it. It probably goes without mentioning, he thinks wryly.

“Well,” he begins, “the first one sounds more like you.” He emphasises his point by jabbing a finger in the direction of the other student. “However...” he leans back in his chair, letting it balance on the back two legs, “...I suppose you could say that I’m here for ‘inappropriate behaviour’.” he says with air quotes, nearly falling off the chair in the process.

It is as he suspected. _What an annoying, immature,_ juvenile _…_

A pause. Seconds tick by. He’s dealt with more difficult people at rallies, but god, how could one person be so _annoying_? Maybe, if he just ignored him, he’d stop being so bothersome.

He glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but he’s still there, looking at him almost expectantly.

“You’re not going to keep the conversation going? I’m hurt.” he says as if they had never stopped, clutching his heart and giving him an unexpectedly good mock puppy face. He can’t help but noticing that his tousled curls really add that ‘please?’ effect to it.

 _That’s not important!_ he mentally scolds himself. Why did he have to pay attention to something so _irrelevant_?

Evidently, this strategy is not going to work.

He blatantly looks the other way, trying to focus on, say, how he’s going to convince administration that protests are signs of a socially involved student body and not “a bunch of kids making a lot of noise because they can”, as one of the vice principals had put it.

"You don't even know my name, Apollo." He grins. “I think we should fix that, don’t you?”

For a moment, his mind blanks out.

“Are you flirting with me?” he asks, not quite believing what he just heard.

A raised eyebrow. “And what if I am?” he asks back, not sounding suggestive at all.

For once, he is at a loss for words. “I –”

The teacher comes back and dismisses them, then leaves again almost immediately.

“Well, that’s my cue. See you around, Apollo.” The senior gets up and practically strolls out, leaving him wondering what the hell just happened and also with the distinct feeling of wanting to yell at him.

He also doesn’t know his name. It’s not something he particularly wants to know, of course, but he wants to be able to identify him if need be so he’ll never have to have to talk to him ever again. If possible, that is.

He pops his head back in through the doorway. “It’s Grantaire, by the way, if you were wondering.” And just like that, he’s gone again, whistling no tune in particular as he saunters away.

Somehow, he just knows that this is going to happen again. Which would be bad, because who the _hell_ does he think he _is_? 

* * *

 

“What was the purpose of that?”

The second time is by the Great Lake.

He is currently being confronted by a frustrated Apollo while nursing his hangover with...well, more alcohol. Obviously.

“You also skipped Charms; why bother taking a N.E.W.T. class if you’re not going to show up?” he scolds, arms crossed as he glares down at him, all sprawled out on the frosted grass with a Muggle bottle in his hand labelled “H20 on the GO” in a friendly font. It is definitely not filled with water, especially since water is not red. “And you’re going to get hypothermia like that, especially if you fall into the lake. You’re on the edge, you know.” He exhales for emphasis, a white puff of air escaping from between his lips.

He blows his bangs – would they even be considered bangs? – off of his face, only for them to fall back down. “If I’m good at anything, it’s Charms, so whatever. Unlike _some people_ , who shouldn’t have transferred straight into the N.E.W.T. class if they can’t perform non-verbal spells yet.” He drinks. “Oh, and drinking contests.” he adds with a smirk. He ignores that last part because mild hypothermia honestly isn’t so bad, especially considering the whole magic thing. Spells like the Hot-Air Charm and _Aguamenti_ could have saved thousands of Muggle lives, probably.

“Why did you interrupt our meeting with your drunken rambling?” he repeats.

He takes a swig from his bottle before answering. “Better question: why _not_?” And another. Where did the cap go? Whatever, he’ll just seal it with magic, it’ll be fine.

“Just answer the question.” Apollo practically growls (or maybe it’s just him, it’s probably just him). He purposefully directs his gaze elsewhere, humming loudly to himself, and lifts the bottle up again.

“Put the bottle down!” In one fluid motion, he rips it out of his grasp (“What the fuck?!”) and throws it away from him. It lands on the grass a few metres away, significantly less full than it was several seconds ago. To be fair, it _does_ have a volume of one litre and he _did_ drink a lot that last time.

A swish of a wand sends the bottle flying back towards his waiting hand, after which he takes a gulp from it. He looks up at Apollo with exaggerated disdain, who is looking down at him with significantly less exaggerated but more authentic disdain.

“That was really rude, you know,” he points out.

“So is disrupting a club meeting,” he retorts.

“Your club is useless.”

“We haven’t done anything yet because we’re a new club and therefore still in the planning stage.”

“No, in general, it’s pointless. Nothing’s going to change;  do you think you’re the first student to attempt something like this?”

“Of course not, but I want to help the cause in any way I am able. Even if I don’t see the result of it, hopefully, future generations will.”

“You sound like a preachy, clichéd – _fuck_!”

 _Splash_.

"I did tell you."

***

"This common room is really nice considering that everyone calls it the ‘Slytherin dungeon'. And that it is very literally in the dungeons." he remarks, sitting in an armchair near the fire, wrapped in an emerald green blanket while holding a mostly untouched mug of tea in his hands. ("Alcohol makes you feel warmer while lowering your body temperature; I'm confiscating this.", despite his protests. Also: “How did you drink this much wine before lunch?!”, so naturally, “It’s almost as if it’s... _magic_!”)

A raised eyebrow. "Did you think that Salazar Slytherin would let his students live in a damp, cold cave?"

"Well, okay, no," he admits, and then with some hesitation, "and thanks for hauling my ass out of the stupid lake and bringing me here instead of to Pomfrey." He looks at the lake through one of the windows, the green light casting an eerie glow on the room. "Really."

He blinks, then, "You may be a reckless nihilist, but I wasn't going to let you die. Or be expelled, although I am fairly certain that a number of our professors are aware of your...habit."

"Wouldn't matter if I finished school," he replies with a small laugh. It comes out harsher than he intended.

"And why would that be?"

"I don't want to own a business – “ He lifts a hand and puts up a finger, and proceeds to do so for each point, “ – teach, do spell research, play Quidditch, be a Healer, or work for the government – ” He resigns to sticking up his thumb since his other hand is still holding the mug, “ – so basically all wizarding jobs are out even if I do graduate."

“More Muggle jobs are phasing in, though, what with the painfully slow but sure incorporation of modern technology. I’m sure that you could find something that pertains to your interests and abilities.”

He shrugs. “Maybe.” A beat. “I’m assuming that you would start some sort of troupe for revolutionaries, then.”

“Not the phrasing I would use, but you would be correct in thinking that.”

Another beat.

“So, why did you storm into my meeting and give a surprisingly impassioned drunken rant, again?”

“ _Because_ I was drunk?” he tries.

“You couldn’t have been that inebriated if you were that coherent.” he argues.

He snorts. “May I remind you that my tolerance is ridiculously high?”

“That may be true, but your arguments actually had main points and evidence and if anything, that is even more indicative that you at least had an idea of what you were doing.”

“Maybe because I think your club is a terrible waste of time?”

“You were certainly more rowdy, but what you said wasn’t insubstantial. Points were made.”

He rolls his eyes. “A more accurate term would probably be ‘half-assed’, y’know.”

He gets up, leaving the mostly full mug on a side table and draping the blanket over the armchair. “Thanks again,” he says. Sincerity tastes strange on his tongue. Unfamiliar. Or maybe it’s the tea, he doesn’t really drink tea.

He is just behind the stone wall that serves as the entrance when Enjolras stops him.

“Next time,” he begins, “you need to cite your sources. I am fairly certain that some of your evidence is either outdated or incorrect.”

He spins around on one foot to face him and gives him a look.

“Who says there’s a next time?” He turns back around and leaves, but a smile is playing on the edge of his mouth.

Because even as he steps out into the corridor, he knows that there will be, regardless of whether he wants it or not.

* * *

 

“The revolution will live on even we do not!” Enjolras declares as he deflects his attacker’s sword with his own and strikes back, the light of the setting sun reflecting off the blade in a way that would probably make Jehan swoon.

“Scum like you _will_ be eliminated,” she replies with a scowl, easily ducking underneath his weapon and tackling him to the ground and also missing his point entirely.

“Gavroche, some assistance!” he shouts as he attempts to get her off of him with his legs while simultaneously blocking her sword from his awkward position.

“Kinda busy here!” the boy hollers back as he blocks a blow from a staff with his katars, but is knocked back a few metres due to his attacker’s strength.

“Here!” Courfeyrac casts a strength buff on both of them, nearly getting an axe and arrow to his head for his troubles. “‘Ferre, any close combat spells left?”

“I have a few,” Combeferre says as he electrocutes one of their enemies through the metal of the guard’s longsword and effectively knocks him out, “but not nearly as many as I would like.” He winces as a throwing knife flies past him, nicking his ear as he lets loose a barrage of small fire bolts at his assailant, setting his clothes aflame. One of them probably knows how to put them out, based on his observations, so he probably won’t be incapacitated for long.

Enjolras manages to escape with his newfound (and unfortunately temporary) strength and gets in a slash to her shoulder, only to receive one close to his neck, far too close for comfort. “There’s too many of them!”

“This street is a dead end, we’re trapped!” Courfeyrac exclaims with a frown as he points his wand at Enjolras’ injury, closing the wound but leaving a noticeable scar. “‘Ferre, any _deus ex machinas_ up your sleeve?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Combeferre answers as he deflects a frost arrow with a fire bolt and dashes out of the way of the axe slicing through the air where his body used to be, “Like I said earlier, I haven’t got many spells left since I wasn’t able to reload properly earlier.”

“Enjolras, watch out!” Gavroche dashes into the path of the oncoming knives and deflects them with his katars so they fall to the ground; however, a stray one lands directly in his thigh, resulting in a string of curses. Fortunately, blood doesn’t appear to be gushing out of it, so it’ll probably heal just fine later.

“Watch your language, Gavroche,” Enjolras scolds as he continues to fight against the sword lady, “you may participate in battle, but you’re still eleven.”

“Oh _come on_ , I have a _knife wound_ ! It could have hit an _artery_ and I could have _died_!”

Courfeyrac hurries over, casting shields as not to get hit by enemy projectiles but is instead knocked to the ground with a shoulder tackle from the ranger who has now put her bow away. “Oof!”

“This doesn’t look like it’s going to end well,” Combeferre says matter-of-factly as lightning shoots out of his fingertips at the axe wielder, who is mostly unharmed (albeit a little singed) by the attack, “and Marius should have been back by now as well.”

“Well,” Enjolras huffs as he sidesteps and slashes at his opponent, “you can’t always get help from others and you know that; sometimes, you must simply act on your own.”

“Did somebody say _help_?” a voice questions as the owner of said voice leaps down from the rooftops, landing on (and effectively disarming) the ranger in the process. And removing her from battle, if the cracking noise is anything to go by.

Grantaire winks at Enjolras as he gingerly steps off of the ranger’s body. Enjolras resists the urge to roll his eyes because that would not be conducive to defeating his opponent. “You’re not some sort of _vigilante_ , Grantaire.”

“Hi to you too, Apollo,” he replies as he unsheathes his sword, knocking away a throwing knife before charging into the fray.

Meanwhile, Courfeyrac gets up and rushes over to Gavroche – he wasn’t sure if their enemies had spared him because he's a child or if he had managed to defend himself while injured, but that isn’t important right now – and quickly removes the knife (“ _Shit_ !”, followed by a, “ _Language_!”) before applying both pressure and casting a healing spell that will be just enough for him to stop bleeding but definitely won’t be enough to completely heal it. He’ll have to check on it after the battle is over, he reminds himself.

Combeferre unleashes a vine, tripping the approaching axe wielder and spreads his palms out to release a pale blue beam, freezing him solid. “I’ve run out now, so you two finish them off while Courf and I bring Gavroche to the safehouse, alright?”

“Aye aye, captain,” says Grantaire and Enjolras gives a quick nod as the other three make their escape, a sphere of blue energy surrounding them just in case any other ranged attacks head their way.

“I trust that you know what you’re doing, considering that your opponent is ranged and you are not,” Enjolras comments as he leaves a cut across the woman’s cheek only to receive one of his own.

“Don’t worry, I got this,” he says with smirk as he approaches the knife thrower, dodging the projectiles with all of the grace of a dancer before slamming an elbow into his nose and sheathing his sword again. The knife thrower, in spite of the blood flowing out of his face, attempts to take out another knife but is stopped when Grantaire takes a step and unsheathes his sword again, slicing him diagonally across his neck.

He doesn’t even bother rendering him unconscious, but slams him in the gut, knocking him down because hey, why not? Also, that guy is (closer to _was_ , probably) a total asshole that had attacked him on a previous occasion with his stupid little knives and lack of close-range combat skills, so fuck you, asshole knife guy, fuck you.

“If anyone, I would think that you need help,” he says, leaning against the wall, watching Enjolras duel with what looks like mild interest, but who is he kidding, Apollo is a magnificent swordsman and makes up for his sometimes inelegant footwork with his sheer intensity and force. He’s still a terrible dancer, though, which really was a sight to behold that one time he accidentally got inebriated after a particularly arduous (but successful) quest with his party plus him.

In exchange, Enjolras sends him a look (“ _Really_ , Grantaire?”) as he finally disarms his opponent and takes no time in knocking her out. And only knocking her out, because unlike some _people_ , he would rather stay out the public eye for now, thank you very much. Even _associating_ with Grantaire could be tricky because he has a history of...well, what he had just done, really.

Grantaire gives him a slow clap and receives a glare from Enjolras, who is currently bleeding from the cut on his face.

“You could have helped.”

Grantaire brings a hand to his chest, looking offended. “And steal your _glory_? Blasphemy!”

“I feel like you don’t actually know the meanings of the words you use,” Enjolras comments as they stealthily – well, mostly stealthily, he knows he could work on his footwork as he has been oft reminded by a certain cynic – make their way to a particular and somewhat oddly named tavern.

“I could have totally just let you guys get destroyed by those jerks,” he continues, as if he hadn’t been interrupted in the first place, “I mean, how _fucking_ dumb are you if your only other physical attacker is a small child? Gavroche is pretty good, but not good enough to take down _those_ kinds of people on his own.” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “Your group’s stupidity is so overwhelming sometimes, I think I’m going to have to stick around until Marius and co. show up again lest you die for _actually_ nothing as opposed to _mostly_ nothing.”

“How generous of you.”

“You’re very welcome...ah, _fuck_!”

***

“‘Tis but a flesh wound,” Grantaire declares as Courfeyrac begins to heal his ankle with Combeferre’s assistance.

“It’s a fracture, actually,” Combeferre points out.

“What were you _thinking_ ?” Enjolras asks, his body far too still. “You could have gotten one of us _killed_.”

“Says you, who can barely fight for himself while unharmed.” he retorts.

“Regardless of ability, you shouldn’t have fought on your ankle; the healing process is going to be quite a bit more complicated now.” Combeferre says, focusing on the task at hand instead of on (yet another) disagreement between the two.

“However,” Courfeyrac adds cheerfully, “you should be able to walk on it within the week, so that’s good, right?” No one responds.

“But _pray tell_ , Apollo, how would _my_ injury have killed any of _your_ friends?” Grantaire asks, eyebrow raised.

“A misstep on your part could have resulted in death or injury for another;” Enjolras replies, barely moving, “it was a mistake for you to join us.”

Grantaire makes a sound of disgust. “You were going to get your _asses_ handed to you if I hadn’t showed up.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “You underestimate our abilities.”

Combeferre pointedly ignores their argument as he finishes bandaging up Grantaire’s ankle. “Don’t put any weight on it until it heals; we don’t have any crutches around right now so you’ll have to lean on someone if you want to move around for the time being.” He turns to Courfeyrac. “I’m going to go reload, I’ll trust that you can take care of the rest?”

Courfeyrac gives him a salute, the effect somewhat altered by his grin. Combeferre nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Grantaire snorts. “Or maybe you overestimate yourself.”

Enjolras leans forward in his seat, arms on the table. “You think I don’t know what my friends are capable of?”

“No,” Grantaire says with a shake of his head, “I think you don’t know what _you’re_ capable of.”

“And why wouldn’t I know _that_?”

“I don’t know, maybe because you can’t actually see what you’re doing?”

A pause.

“Well, you should get some rest!” Courfeyrac declares to Grantaire, clapping his hands. “I’ll help you to your room now, okay?”

The third time is after a fight.

Enjolras stares, intense, focused. Grantaire looks at him expectantly, waiting for a response. It doesn’t come.

He blinks first.

“Yeah, alright,” he concedes, “do you know which one it is?”

“Yup, we asked.” Courfeyrac says, nodding. “Up we go!” After some initial unsteadiness, he has Grantaire reasonably balanced and they (very slowly) make their way out of the room. Courfeyrac gives Enjolras a questioning look and with the visual equivalent of a dramatic sigh, he gets up and follows them out.

After Courfeyrac gets kicked out of Grantaire’s room (“Thanks, but it’s cool, I’ve still got another leg, right?”), he finds Enjolras trying to not to look like he’s still silently fuming and failing.

“Why do you like him so much?” he practically blurts out, but _doesn’t_ (it is not something he does, in his mind). “I mean, you haven’t known him that long and you’ve already helped him undress.” He is, of course, definitely not blushing.

Courfeyrac begins to correct him, since Grantaire was fairly adamant about that one thing, but decides that it’s fine, Enjolras doesn’t need to know. He shrugs instead. “I guess we’re kindred spirits or something. You and ‘Ferre were pretty buddy-buddy from the start too, though.”

“On that note,” he starts before Enjolras can respond, “why do _you_ like him so much? If you really didn’t want him around, you could totally just get him to leave.”

“Everyone else doesn’t mind him, I can’t just force him out because I don’t want him interfering. That’s unfair.” he immediately replies. “We’re all equal here; I can’t override that even if I am apparently the de facto leader, that’s precisely what we’re working against.”

“I suppose,” Courfeyrac says, appearing to mull it over. Neither of them mention the lack of denial.

“Well,” Courfeyrac says brightly, “I should get ‘Ferre to come back; it’s getting late, and you know how he is.”

He saunters out without waiting for a reply, leaving Enjolras with his thoughts.

* * *

 

Strings of lights are hung from just about every viable place in the room, giving it a warm glow. Several paper cups of eggnog of varying amounts are clustered on the low table, each labelled with a distinctive scrawl. Every window is plastered with stickers: snowflakes, reindeer, various abstract concepts, and the like.

On the other side of the glass, snow drifts down, painting a layer of white with the city as its canvas. Only the headlights of passing vehicles appear to pierce through the darkness, revealing the colours that are slowly being overtaken.

The fourth time is on Christmas Eve.

“Why did you come if you were just going to ruin everything?” he asks, voice low.

Silence, then:

“Just because I’m not _you_ doesn’t mean I ruined it.”

“That was a _disaster_.”

“If _that’s_ what you call a disaster, I would truly like to know what you’d call that _other_ incident.”

“Don’t change the topic, Grantaire!”

“Oh, _my bad_ , just thought that you should get some _fucking perspective_.”

“You always come in and interfere, your commentary is unhelpful and probably unsupported, Courfeyrac always gets distracted by your _antics_ , sometimes you can’t even get home by yourself and yet you still show up! Why do you even _come_?” He exhales.

“Why do you think?” he asks softly.

“Because you’re a drunken fool who doesn’t know when you’re not wanted!”

Everything is still; something shifts.

A disbelieving laugh; it sounds like hell. “You think I wouldn’t know?” His voice is deathly quiet.

He gets up, looks him up and down. Walks to the door. “Merry fucking Christmas, Apollo.”

He closes the door just as quietly as he leaves.

* * *

 

Thunder rumbles in the distance as he walks down the hall as quietly as one can while in a hurry. A grandfather clock indicates that he has forty minutes, which is plenty of time to do what must be done and leave without a trace.

For all appearances, he is simply an unfortunately stranded young aristocrat who has wandered in to get out of the terrible weather, the fearful expression on his face supporting this assumption. However, the daggers hidden on his body would say otherwise.

 _A left here, down this corridor...another left,_ he recites to himself as he reaches what appears to be yet another unremarkable ornate door. His expression shifts out of his act as he lifts a gloved hand to test the door’s handle. To his surprise, it gives way under a regular amount of pressure. This means one of two things: the mansion really _is_ that unguarded, or someone else has gotten there first.

Although the security here is frightfully lax, he doubts that they would go so far as to install locks on their doors without using them.

He lets himself in without showing a hint of the tentativeness he feels coursing through him  to see something very much unexpected.

The man is, as planned, lying on his bed smelling strongly of alcohol. What had not been planned was his current state of living, which is to say, he is considerably more dead than he should be at this point in time. He was supposed to be this dead about ten minutes later, to be a bit more precise.

The perpetrator could have been one of many, but the most likely suspect is the figure leaning against the balcony doors twirling a small vial between his fingers. He looks up from his idle action in what can only be genuine surprise, his fingers now still.

The fifth time is during an assignment.

“It’s you,” he states before he can speak, closing and locking the door behind him. None of the surprise or confusion he feels is displayed on his face, but he knows that it could be present in more subtle ways: the twitch of a hand, the shifting of one’s weight. He tries his best to keep these under control, but completely concealing his emotions has never been his forte.

The other gasps in mock astonishment, bringing the hand with the vial to cover his mouth. “ _Really_? I had no idea!”

He takes a moment to compose himself – he should be desensitised to these kinds of situations yet here he is – and shifts his gaze to look him straight in the eye. “Poison. How fitting for an alcoholic.”

He shrugs with an air of nonchalance and a knowing smirk. “And a sharp, double-edged, and very personal weapon for the revolutionary,” he replies, nodding towards the dagger strapped to his thigh (how did he notice it so quickly?), “equally appropriate.”

A beat. An almost expectant raised eyebrow from the other, a scowl from him.

“Why are you, of all people, doing this kind of assignment anyway? You’re certainly not interested in the subsequent political repercussions his death will have.” His query conveys his curiosity and, unbeknownst to him, a hint of how impressed he is that he was beaten at his own game. Or job, rather.

The other grins, the vial spinning in his hand again. “Guess.”

He doesn’t even need to think before he answers. “It pays well regardless of how much interest you have in it. More money, more alcohol, more time spent in a drunken stupor.” he finishes with more than a hint of disdain, his lip curled.

“Interesting,” he says, “you haven’t changed much, then.” Before he can respond, he flings the vial at him and just barely catches it, lunging to the side so it doesn’t smash onto the floor.

He scowls again. “Why do you have to be so _impulsive_ ? You could have _ruined_ this!” he hisses, storming (quietly, of course) towards him. “It’s a wonder if you haven’t been caught yet.”

The other sighs, as if in exasperation. “Not only do you overestimate yourself, but you underestimate me. Sucks to be you, I guess.” He shrugs lazily.

 _Mockingly_ , he thinks.

He glares. The other returns it with a cheerful smile.

“You are five,” he says, and he’s fully aware that it’s a petty insult, but he’s sick and tired of bumping into this guy (Grantaire, he thinks but doesn’t like calling him by his name because it humanises him and that doesn’t help him get the job done, it’s distracting when he has a name) and maybe he’ll be able to beat him this way since they’re currently tied. It’s worth a shot.

“Overemotional adolescent boy,” the other fires back with a cheeky grin. It shouldn’t affect him, but it _does_ because _excuse him_ , he is not a lovesick disaster waiting to happen. Besides, he is certainly not a boy anymore, in spite of his appearance.

No, it was not worth it, not at all. This was a terrible idea, he thinks, stooping down to this level. And yet, he reacts faster than he can stop himself (Is he venting? Is he making the most of his chance to behave in this manner? What is he _doing_?)

“You will die alone,” he starts, approaching him, “you will die alone, choking on your own _vomit_ in a back alley somewhere wishing you hadn’t wasted your life on _nothing_ ,” he fires back, accentuating the last word with a jab to his sternum.

“At least I won’t be disappointed,” he says simply, his expression quietly determined, an eyebrow raised, “when it turns out that wildfire ideals can die out as quickly as they spread, yeah?”

“More than you’ve lived for,” he snarls, almost but not quite in his face, “and that’s what counts, at worst I will have tried and at best I will have _succeeded_.”

He opens the balcony doors behind him and stares at him, challenging him, as he walks backwards towards the handrail. He cannot help but follow. “No, at worst you will _fail_. You are not invulnerable; you are not so far above me, Apollo.” He has never heard a voice so sharp and edged and cold. He doesn’t think he’s heard anything so terrible in his life. He smirks, but it’s different somehow.

His shoulders tense in response because he could fail, it’s a possibility. Granted, a possibility he has been working to minimise (he doesn’t need to succeed _himself_ , of course, you can kill a man but you can’t kill an idea) but it’s still a possibility.

“Enjolras,” he says suddenly and he turns to him, blinking, automatically responding to his name.

He gives him a long look before backing up against the railing. And with that, he swings into the empty air and is gone.

* * *

 

The stars hang in the sky, the only lights in the moonless sky. On the pier below, a lone figure sits on the edge, bare feet skimming the surface of the water. A loud exhale sends a fog of breath floating up into the air.

The water ripples farther off from the shore, revealing the indistinct form of a tail, and he looks over at the disturbance. As the ripples approach him, he thinks back to the last time he was here. _It had certainly been a lot warmer then,_ he thinks as he suppresses a shiver.

The sixth time is long after the storm.

“You’re back,” His voices lacks the edge it had the last time he was here. Granted, it had been a while, but he hadn’t expected...this. No jab, no provocative statement, just...this. It feels wrong, somehow.

“I am,” he says in reply, peering at him in the near-darkness. From what he can tell, he is mostly unchanged other than the lack of energy, lack of spirit. _That could just be caused by the weather,_ he suggests to himself, but it feels like...more than that. Like there’s some underlying factor that he can’t quite pinpoint. Then again, what does he know about _his_ kind?

“Any particular reason why?” he asks, voice flat, barely even a question. He looks up from the water, eyes fixed on his.

Oh yes, that.

He clears his throat. “I apologise for what I said and implied the last time we spoke. It was immature, uncalled for, and simply unacceptable.” He nods; good, that came out like it was supposed to.

Silence. Above, the stars continue to shine, or at least what’s left of them.

“And what if I don’t accept your apology?” he asks softly, eyes wandering.

“I will respect your decision and leave you and your people be.” He had prepared for this as well because of course he has, and it’s a perfectly reasonable response.

He ponders over his reply for a few moments. “I see,” is all he says before they lapse back into silence.

He briefly reconsiders his idea of ever coming here in the first place, but that thought is dismissed almost immediately. _Setbacks occur, you just have to expect them and deal with the aftermath._ he reminds himself. No point in dwelling in that now that he’s already present.

“I accept,” he declares, voice ringing clear in the ocean air, “and I think I should also...y’know, sorry.” He shrugs as well as one can while one's arms are underwater.

“No, you...you were right, in some ways. I needed to take a step back and reassess the situation at hand.” He ignores the part of him that tells him that he should be right because he can’t always be right, that’s absurd (even if he tends to be most of the time, he didn’t get to where he is now by being _wrong_ ).

“Is there a specific reason why you came today, of all days?” he asks, keeping eye contact. A small part of him registers it as unnerving. Another part of him, the part he likes to ignore, registers their striking depth and makes him think of verdant forests that he will never see (that _he_ will never see again, in all probability). The thought sends a twinge of yearning through him, but he dismisses it, it’s not relevant right now (is it?).

“An...event is occurring tomorrow,” he replies, every word deliberate, “and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to return next.”

“So you came at the last minute.” he says, not quite a statement but not quite a question either. He raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t really sound like something you would do.”

He shrugs with an air of carelessness he does not have. “There’s been a lot going on lately, what with all the buildup to this particular happening.”

“Well, good luck, I suppose,” he adds not quite unconvincingly but his gaze has wandered to the edge of the shore to focus on the quiet but continuous lapping of the waves.

Against everything that makes him who he is, he fidgets.

“Thank you,” he replies automatically, because of course, it’s a response as natural as the way he pushes back his emotions right now, just for now, because he needs to _focus_ and they can be dealt with better later. _Now is not the time,_ he thinks

They fall back into silence, as easy as falling back into place, but that’s not what their positions are usually like, he’s usually all pointed arguments and witty counters, amused smirks and almost taunting looks, mocking allusions that he only understands half the time (their drastically different cultures are sometimes detrimental to their interactions, but admittedly, he enjoys them regardless of whether or not he can actually pull apart the core points from the long strings of foreign mythology and half-known references) –

“If tomorrow works in our favour,” he says, voice low, “will you be here tomorrow?”

A pause. “Yes,” Eye contact. “of course.”

The words remain unspoken between them, hanging in the night air like the pinpoints of light far above them, far from them.

He smirks. “Don’t get yourself killed, yeah?” he teases (half-teases, the weight in his gaze reveals that it’s only half a joke, only half a snarky statement with no real substance behind it and they both know why and neither of them is going to say it out loud, are they).

He pulls his feet up from the water and gives a firm nod. “I will certainly try my best,” he asserted, bringing himself to stand on the dock, droplets of seawater trailing from the soles of his feet and down through the slats of the dock, back to where they came from.

“Don’t you always,” he shoots back with a wry grin and eyes that are not quite pleading and with a splash and a whip of the tail as vibrant as his eyes, he is gone.

All that is left is the water and the night and the stars and as he walks back, he can only hope that this time, he will be proven wrong.

* * *

 

“The usual, hot stuff?” He inquires, a crooked grin on his face and an eyebrow raised in a way that is definitely and not at all intentionally flirtatious, previously tired eyes alert at the sight of the familiar customer. There were rarely any other patrons in the shop at this time because who the _fuck_ willingly went to your one and and only Local Indie Coffee Shop ™ at six in the morning _every weekday_ ! Every goddamn weekday regardless of whether or not it was a holiday or winter break or raining harder than a teenager’s raging erection, which was admittedly not that often, but still, every fucking day, how did he do it when he wasn’t even getting _paid_ to come in?! So, as per usual, they are the only ones in the store, because it’s fucking six am.

“Yes,” the aforementioned customer bristles, “and I would, in fact, like the “hot stuff” since my order usually only varies in the number of espresso shots it has, and also, I’ve never ordered a cold drink here before.”

His eyebrows raise to form an entirely different expression. “You’ve seriously never had a cold drink here before?” Although he generally worked a decent number of hours a week here, he was obviously not omnipresent and had assumed that this particular customer (who refused to give him his name even after _all this time_ , where was the regular-barista relationship? Truly, he was hurt and offended, _betrayed_ , even) would have, y’know, not been so boring in sticking to the same drink for such a _long_ time. Where was the fun in that? (Answer: there was none. None to be found at all.) To be honest, he was a little disappointed in him.

A curt nod is the only reply, blue eyes as steely (and stunning, but less important) as ever.

“So,” he starts, pointing at him, because fuck the customer service rule of using your full hand instead, they’re way past regular customer service politeness barriers at this point, “ _you’re_ saying that you’ve been a regular customer for nearly _two_ years, including what we folks from ‘round these parts like to call “the Summer of ‘69” because of how _goddamn hot_ it was, hey, that was fucking hilarious okay, at least smile or something, that was pretty damn good, stop looking at me like that, anyway, and it’s, oh, fucking _June_ and you haven’t even _tried_ one of our Specialty Indie Coffee Shop Summer Drinks™? Dude – oh, okay, _sir_ , loosen up a bit, it’s six in the fucking morning – you, are missing out. On so much. I make a sick iced vanilla macchiato, unless you’re not into vanilla, if you know what I mean.” He raises his eyebrows pointedly to emphasise the innuendo.

“I’d rather just have my regular order right now, thanks,” he says, pulling out the perfect amount of change plus some extra for the tip jar that is currently labelled, “Help Me Pay for an Escort Because No One is Willing to Go Out Me :’(”. Of course, he doesn’t even glance at the label after all this time because well, it’s always the same shit. In his opinion, this one is one of his favourites but (Still) Nameless Hot Blond Customer Dude Who Has Only Revealed the His Surname and That Doesn’t Count probably would just dismiss that tiny tidbit with a wave of his hand or those (really hot) glares that he often gives him or something equally high and mighty, as if this kind of humour doesn’t even belong in his compost bin. (He doesn’t definitively _know_ if he has a compost bin or not since he’s never been to his place, but of course he has a compost bin, he goes to this coffee shop almost every single fucking day and he can almost _guarantee_ that it’s because this is one of the few fair trade coffee shops in the area that isn’t part of a chain.)

He gives a long-suffering sigh as he takes the money (no extra shots this time, he notes from the warm coins in his hand), rings him up (no receipt, he gets the same thing almost every time so there’s really no point), and goes over to where all the barista-y stuff is to make yet another medium flat white with two coffee sleeves (Enjolras, as he knows him, apparently has sensitive hands, which he not-so-secretly thinks is adorable. This has resulted in almost unnoticeable blush creeping onto his face in the past, which, of course, was even more adorable. This became a bit of recurring theme for a few weeks. It was a good few weeks.) when Enjolras clears his throat, still there.

“For here this time, please. In a mug instead of the little cup, though, those…”

“...Are too hard to hold, what with the heat and your soft baby hands?” he taunts, partially because the opportunity had come once again and partially to hide his surprise. Not once, in the two years of knowing him, had he requested to actually sit in the shop and enjoy the Indie Hipster Aesthetic™ that the establishment has to offer its clientele. He would generally just swoop in with his fucking Rapunzel braid and his fucking red clothes (was it an aesthetic choice? Was it a fetish? Was there a store somewhere that only sold red clothing?), get his coffee, and leave.

“No, it’s just easier to drink from when I’m trying to get stuff done,” he replies with more than a hint of hostility, but the blush is there and damn, it’s cute. Which is not something he vocalises this time around because he doesn’t want to piss him off _too much_ , y’know?

“Whatever you say, baby,” he says in a singsong voice as he grabs a mug at random, receiving only a huff as a response as he pulls out his phone to avoid further interaction as his drink is made. Being the hipster coffee shop that it is, this one turns out to have a shirtless skinny white boy with his face artfully scribbled over in black wearing a flower crown holding a cat in front of a pastel blue background, and he briefly considers the possibility of Rapunzel over here pulling that pose with his cat (Maurice) before he remembers that Maurice is a lazy fatass and that aesthetic would not work nearly as well with her. Also, Maurice would cling onto that Rapunzel braid and never let go, so maybe not.

After completing the drink with all the finesse of someone who has made this particular drink an absurd number of times, he places the cup on the counter and doesn’t even bother calling for the other, as again, no one else is in the goddamn store this early in the goddamn morning, which bears repeating to him because if it were his decision, he wouldn’t get out of bed until maybe six in the evening.

His sole customer looks up from his phone (probably the fucking _New York TImes_ as opposed to some good ‘ol fashioned electronic communication too) and carefully takes his mug with a nod, carrying it over to the one of the tables near the storefront window, the shop’s name posted across the glass in a tasteful (or disgustingly minimalist, depending on your perspective) font below a similarly minimalist logo. It may as well say “Welcome to Hipster Hell”, but to be fair, working here for as long as he has makes you kind of jaded with the whole idea of it all.

“Hey, hey, listen to this,” he begins after the cup is safely on the table and at least slightly emptier, leaning forward on the counter, elbows supporting his weight, “‘ _Are you E, because I’d be high if I had you in my mouth?_ ’ How was that, eh?”

All he receives in return is a look that tells him that yes, it was good, or he wouldn’t look so absolutely _done_ with him. It’s nice to know that he’s not losing his touch, at least.

Right after he receives that particular look, however, blue eyes slide over to the newly labelled tip jar (as of literally this morning) and it’s his turn to raise his eyebrows. He even has the audacity to _scoff_ , once his lips (with that goddamn Cupid’s bow) are no longer on the rim of the mug.

“Your dating pool can’t be _that_ limited. I mean, the student population around here isn’t as straight as it is in other places, not to mention that you’re not the polar opposite of conventionally attractive.”

He grins. “Did you just indirectly call me attractive?”

Oh, here comes the blush again, along with a throat clearing because of course, right?

“All I said was that you wouldn’t qualify for one of those terrible plastic surgery reality shows,” is the adamant reply that he doesn’t believe for one second, although he internally applauds him for coming up with a semi-reasonable answer in such little time.

“Mmhm, of course, definitely, for sure – “

“How long do you plan on spitting out synonyms, exactly?” he asks with more than a little annoyance tinging his voice. His arms would probably be crossed if he weren’t holding his coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.

“Speaking of synonyms, actually, did you know that Thesaurus.com lists “hooray” as a synonym for “oops”?” It was hilarious when it was first shown to him and it’s still hilarious now, actually.

Enjolras’ expression turns to pure bewilderment and he can’t help but laugh because he suddenly looks so _lost,_ like his train of thought has been completely derailed (which is actually a possibility, now that he considers it) and he never expected to see _that_ face look like _that_ in a billion years.

“Okay, sorry, sorry,” he says, still smiling but at least he’s managed to stop laughing (this time).

“Apology accepted,” is the crisp reply as he takes a sip from his mug (honestly, though, where did that even get that?) and silence overtakes them.

But only for a moment, of course, what’s the point otherwise?

“Yo, Enjolras,” he interjects into the brief void, “do you wanna go out with me?”

“Pardon?”

“Y’know, since I'm not the _polar opposite of conventionally attractive_ , right?” He raises his eyebrows several times for emphasis, pairing the action with a wide grin.

“That doesn't mean I want to go out with you.” Which is, of course, a fair point, but he's gotten this far so he's not backing down now.

“That wasn't a refusal, though,” he counters as he takes a few steps back and vaults over the counter, receiving a hint of a frown return.

“Otherwise,” he adds as an afterthought, “I'll be _forced_ to save up my tip money for an escort when I could be saving it up for an overpriced fancy dinner with my _beau_.” By now, he is only a few footsteps away from him. The adrenaline of it all had already gotten to him, and without thinking, he closes the distance between them by placing his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders. He doesn't jump at the sudden contact, which is good and also maybe he should have thought this through more but isn't that true for most everything he does on a whim, but blue eyes do narrow slightly as they make direct contact and wow, he has nice collarbones.

The seventh time is after two years, _two fucking years_ , of persistent snark and witticisms and totally unintentional and/or joking (take your pick) flirting.

“Why would you intentionally take someone out to an excessively expensive restaurant when you work at a coffee shop? Seems unnecessary.” he comments, cocking his head slightly to the right.

“It's traditional, isn't it? Fancy dinner date with a suit and everything.”

“I didn't peg you for the traditional type.”

“I'm full of surprises,” he says, leaning in closer, “wouldn't you like to discover more?”

A pause.

“I'm actually not really the traditional type, though, that was mostly for dramatic effect,” he clarifies.

“Oh? Where would you take someone on a first date, then?”

“I dunno, maybe,” an idea comes to him and he smiles, “maybe a coffee shop. I'll pay for their drink and all that jazz too, just ‘cause I'm nice like that, not because I’m tryna be the “dominant, masculine figure” or whatever shit the straights wanna call it.”

A raised eyebrow. “What if they're the type of person to purchase exceedingly expensive drinks?”

“Nah,” he says, “pretty sure they prefer flat whites, and those aren't that expensive. At certain places, anyway.”

He leans back in his chair, eyes scanning his face, assessing him, maybe, he doesn't do that so he has no fucking clue.

“What do you actually go by?” he asks, gesturing to plastic name tag with a lonely ‘R’ scrawled on it in black Sharpie. “You must have a less abbreviated name.”

“R is fine, but Grantaire, if you'd prefer an actual name.”

“Grantaire, then.” He gently pries his hands off of his shoulders, callused fingers against soft ones before the contact is broken, arms falling down at sides and hands being placed on the table respectively.

“If you’re so keen on taking someone out to a coffee shop, I may have someone in mind.” A mischievous smile plays on the corner of his lips, his eyes alight, an expression he’s not used to seeing on this particular face. “And perhaps, that someone is willing to come here this Saturday at twelve thirty to prevent you from requesting the services of an escort when you obviously cannot afford one.”

“Hm,” he considers, tapping a finger to his chin, “I should be free then, but in case something comes up for either of us, it would be safer if we had each others’ numbers, don’t you think?”

It occurs to him that both of them probably don’t know what they’re doing and that they’re just playing along in the parts they’ve been given, but he honestly doesn’t give a fuck because like, _holy shit, this is actually happening is his dreaming?_ (He bites the inside of his mouth and yeah, that hurt, hot damn.)

He nods. “Of course. Here, let’s switch, it’s simpler that way.”

While typing his number into the contacts list, he decides to label himself as the winky emoticon because he’s Internet culture trash just like every other goddamned person that walks into the fucking store (except _maybe_ the person whose phone he’s holding, he can’t definitively say at this point), and also because every other contact has an _actual name_ and where’s the fun in that?

Once the phones are returned to their rightful owners, he puts his away and pulls out his finger guns.

“See you then, yeah?”

Another nod, firmer this time. “Of course.”

He lets out a dramatic sigh. “Well, I'll leave you to finish your coffee and whatever else it is that you do this early in the morning,” he says as he heads back behind the counter, fingers drumming against his leg. A question comes to him and he narrows his eyes. “Why do you come this early, anyway? Got a chronic case of productivitis?”

“Mm, you could say that. Among other reasons.”

“Aren't you so fucking mysterious.”

A small smile. “I try my best.”

Later on, during his break, he checks his phone and sees a text notification from “Apparently Rapunzel”, which makes him snort. Apparently. Of course.

[7:34am]

_I’m pretty sure that “;)” isn't your name, unless I’ve been completely wrong for the last couple years._

[10:45am]

_to be fair, i didnt know that lettuce drank coffee_

[10:53am]

_I guess we'll just have to call it a draw this time._

[10:54am]

_theres a next time?_

[10:57am]

_I suppose you'll just have to wait and see, yes?_

* * *

 

“Did you get the documents yet?” Grantaire asks, twirling a lock pick between gloved fingers.

“I’m working on it,” he says with gritted teeth, eyes locked on the screen before him, “this job is more difficult than I expected.”

This is maybe the eighteenth assignment they’ve been put on together and he’s got to say, Enjolras looks as good hacking into computers or systems and stealing information as he does in a suit when going undercover (or alternatively, when not undercover), which is something he will tell him after this job is done because he needs to concentrate right now and he really, really doesn’t want to get caught. Because, y’know, law enforcement, jail time, the whole shebang, not really what he’s into.

In the meantime, he looks around the deceivingly average bedroom, clothes strewn on the floor and band posters on the walls (everything from Coldplay to A Perfect Circle to Panic! at the disco, he notes). If he had no background information on the person that lives here or this specific location, he would have never thought that a teenager in this specific town would have the ability (or guts, for that matter) to steal from _them_ . _For fun_. This kid is definitely getting recruited once this mission is over, always with recruiting clever troublemaking teenagers and turning them into career criminals, what is new. Definitely better pay than working IT for some shitty dying company, that’s for sure.

“How much longer, approximately?” he says instead, making sure that nothing will be out of place when they leave, or at least nothing noticeable to anyone but a professional.

“Ten minutes, give or take three,” is the curt reply, eyes never leaving the screen.

That’s when he spots the lights.

“Oh. Shit. Cops.”

He pales, but his hands remain steady even as a hint of panic edges onto his face.

“How?” he asks, brows furrowed, probably trying to determine any mistakes they could have made.

“I have no fucking clue, but you better turn that ten to five, Enjolras, ‘cause there’s no way we’re getting out of this easily otherwise.”

“Alright,” he mutters, a flash of fear passing through his eyes, “alright.” He takes a deep breath and exhales, almost unnoticeably shaky. “Contact Combeferre regarding the situation and get him to make sure _Montparnasse_ – “ he practically hisses the name, “is available, and Feuilly if necessary. If worst comes to worst, their skills and resources will dampen the blow.”

“Already on it,” he declares, typing on his phone at a breakneck pace, “I’ll get everything to him, just tell me when you’re done.”

The next five minutes pass in silence, excluding the gradual crescendo of sirens.

“Done.” Enjolras announces, shutting down the computer with practiced ease and pocketing the USB now containing their information.

“Great, we really need to get the fuck out of here,” He grabs his arm, not willing to waste any time, “come on, the cops are like, _right there_.”

Upon making their way downstairs, there is a series of solid knocks at the front door.

Enjolras curses under his breath and without making a sound, they both head back up and into the master bedroom, which has a window that will allow them to view the front lawn without being seen themselves. It was a good thing they were forced to memorise the layout of every building they broke into as well as the geography of the surrounding area, even if it seemed unnecessary at times.

Silence passes between them as horror creeps into his veins, both of them taking in the sheer number of cops below them, plus the family that lives here and that teenager, the little shit.

 _A little shit that will likely be joining us soon,_ he reminds himself.

“Do you trust me?” Enjolras asks, breaking the heavy stillness as calculating eyes analyse the scene below.

“What? What could you possibly have planned for – “

“Do you trust me?” he repeats, firmer this time. He locks his gaze onto him and it takes all of him to stare back into those firebrand eyes, the same ones that can pick apart endlessly complex systems piece by piece, that can turn hypotheticals and uncertain plans into solid strategies and solid change, that could overthrow a regime.

“Of course,” he said, eyes soft and voice softer.

“Follow me.”

Enjolras leads as they quietly hurry down the stairs and into the attached garage, where two perfectly normal sedans are parked.

“You get us going, I’ll drive.”

Although he is skeptical of the soundness of this plan, he can’t think of anything better, and Enjolras is their master planner for a reason.

“Anything for you, baby.” (He doesn’t miss how Enjolras rolls his eyes because _really? Even now, when we could get arrested?_ )

He goes through all the motions with ruthless efficiency, motions that he’s sped through hundreds of times, both as a professional and as a teenager trying to make that cash money. Shoutout to his high school counsellor for suggesting he take shop class, partially because he was a troublemaker and partially because they needed more people to not cancel the class forever.

Once the car is started, Enjolras slides into the driver’s seat as he buckles himself in beside him.

“Don’t forget the seatbelt, yo,” he comments as Enjolras drives out of the garage, reaching across him to click him safely into position.

Then he drives like the devil himself and Jesus, he’s done a lot of things since he signed his contract, but he’s never been in an actual _car chase_. (The cops aren’t actually after them quite yet, but they will be soon, judging by the yelling.)

Fortunately for them, Enjolras is an excellent driver (read: great at ignoring all the rules of traffic and getting from A to B as fast and as illegally as possible) and it’s almost laughable how much better they are at this than the law enforcement but to be fair, they have literally done shit like this before, albeit not as like, real life Grand Theft Auto.

They ditch the car at the prearranged meeting point and Montparnasse stops next to them less than a minute later in a commandeered taxi, window rolled down as he drives up beside them.

“If you open the partition, I will murder you,” he says, looking straight ahead as punk rock music blasts in the front, “and don’t fuck up the leather, it was just cleaned.”

“Good to see you, Monty,” is received with a playful scowl as he closes the door behind them and they drive to...actually, he forgot, but he’s going to pretend that he knows because that’s definitely something that he shouldn’t have forgotten but like, _real life car chase_. While fun, it was kind of distracting.

As the sun sets and the streets pass by in blurs of light and sound, they look each other in the eye and laugh.

The eighth time is after escaping from the authorities.

“I cannot _believe_ ,” he manages to say, “that we had like, _five_ fucking cop cars screaming after us and none of them even got _close._ ”

He prods Enjolras in the chest with a now-ungloved finger. “You, my friend, are _brilliant._ Good thing you’re on our side, eh?”

He just rolls his eyes with all the maturity of the twenty-something he is, still smiling. “It only worked out because you know cars better than the back of your hand. I don’t think I’ve seen you get into a car that fast before, though, which is quite something”

“I’m “quite something”?” he repeats, eyes wide and a hand to his heart. “Truly, I’d like to thank my father, the policeman, for this nomination. Thanks for teaching me about cops, dad.” He barely finishes his sentence before he bursts into another fit of laughter.

“Well, you are, you know,” Enjolras say matter-of-factly, accentuating his statement with a nod.

He leans in, pressing his forehead against his. “As I am often reminded by a certain someone,” he replies with a smirk, “who is also particularly exceptional.”

He raises an eyebrow, but the corner of his mouth is pulled up into a half-smile. “At what, do you think?”

(Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Montparnasse deliberately ignoring them.)

“You tell me,” is all he says before he kisses him, hard, and before long they’re making out like teenagers in the back of the family car (which, in a way, it is), with all the bumping and weird noises from inexperience with the other person and breathlessness and in his opinion, it’s fucking great and he never really liked making out before but with Enjolras? Hot damn, he can’t get enough, which is also something attributable to teeangers making out but he really doesn’t care, it’s totally worth it.

When they separate, foreheads pressed together, he grins and he just closes his eyes with a soft exhale.

“Pretty good for the first time, huh?”

“I don’t have much basis of comparison, but I’d like to think so.”

“I guess we’ll have to give you more to compare to in the future.”

He huffs with a knowing smile. “I suppose so.”

* * *

 

“Gran-tai-re, come look at the penguins!” Enjolras crows, one hand pointing at the waddling birds on the other side of the Plexiglas, the other adjusting the red baseball cap on his head, blond curls tumbling onto his shoulders. Dad said that he was allowed to grow his hair out if he wanted because long hair isn’t just for girls, he knows, but he also knows that some people think that only boys should have short hair and only girls should have long hair and that those people can be mean. Dad only joked that it might be harder for him to tell apart from his sister if he grew it down his back like her.

“Coming!” he shouts as he dashes across the walkway from the parrots, sneakered feet pattering towards his friend. As he approaches, their flustered adult leader (‘Ferre’s dad, he knows his name but it feels weird calling him anything else) herds ‘Ferre and Courf over to the penguin exhibit as well (who are in an animated discussion on how much parrots can learn from humans, with Courf arguing for _EVERYTHING_ and a slightly frustrated ‘Ferre saying that no, not even _people_ can learn everything, I don’t think _parrots_ can), repeating that we have to _stay together_ but if! If you get lost, talk to the nearest staff member and _definitely_ don’t talk to any other strangers because they might be mean people even if they look nice. ‘Ferre, being ‘Ferre, gives a very adult-looking nod (‘Ferre is very adult in general, he thinks, maybe because he learned how to read so fast so he reads lots, maybe even more than their teacher, and they’re still in preschool while their teacher has finished _university_ ) while Courf grins and salutes. He tries to give a nod that’s as adult as ‘Ferre’s, but he doesn’t think he got it right. Grantaire sighs the way that troublemakers usually do but ends up agreeing as well.

“Wait, there’s someone missing,” ‘Ferre’s dad mutters, eyebrows furrowed as he looks around.

“Monty’s over there,” Grantaire adds helpfully, pointing to the parrots, where a boy with messy black hair (but straight, he thinks, not like Grantaire’s) is attempting to talk to one of the birds. From the other side of the busy path, it’s hard for him to tell if Grantaire’s friend is succeeding or not.

‘Ferre’s dad sighs in relief. “Thanks Grantaire, let’s all go get him and then we can keep looking at the penguins, okay?”

After _that_ mess is sorted out, he grabs Grantaire’s hand (“Okay, no more getting separated, we’re doing the buddy system. Monty, you’re with me, no, you don’t have to hold my hand, no, my hands aren’t gross and sweaty like you just said”) and brings him over to where a group of penguins are swimming in their pool of water. “Aren’t they cool?”

Grantaire nods, green eyes alight. “They’re way cooler than they are in book at school! Look at that one!” he exclaims, pressing his face against the glass as it waddles towards them, before walking away to join the other ones.

“Aw, I thought it was gonna come super close to us so we could see its beak better and stuff.” He says, a hint of a frown on his face.

Enjolras pats him on the shoulder with his free hand, because that’s what Dad does when he feels disappointed – well, he pats him on the head and that feels nice, but Grantaire is quite a bit taller than him, which is frustrating when he shows off how he can reach the higher shelves in the classroom without a stepstool – and says. “It’s okay, I bet the penguin just wanted to go back and play with their friends.” Said penguin happens to be tottering around with its pals, and by the sound of it, having a good time.

Grantaire noticeably brightens at this (or maybe because of the patting? Maybe both?) and nods in agreement. “Oh, that makes sense, I would want to be with my friends instead of with strangers.” He turns to Enjolras and smiles. “Thanks, Enj.”

***

“What animal is that?” Enjolras asks, pointing to a creature with a giraffe-like head and zebra-striped legs walking amongst the trees.

Grantaire brightens once he spots it. “Ooh, that’s an okapi! It was in the book of endangered animals, they’re related to giraffes.” He grins and turns to Enjolras, swinging their hands back and forth (neither of them have let go since he grabbed his hand earlier because, well, why?)

He pauses to think for a moment. “Does that mean that they have really long tongues like giraffes?” he asks, watching the animal carefully.

Grantaire shrugs. “Probably, if they’re related. Like how you and your sister have the same hair.”

He nods, that makes sense. Then he looks over to ‘Ferre and his dad and hey, they look really different from each other, and says so.

Grantaire frowns a bit. “He probably looks more like his mom, then, or maybe other relatives.” His brow furrows in concentration. “Like, um, I think my before dad said my eyes are like his older brother’s? His were brown, like Monty’s.”

Enjolras considers this, then nods again, more slowly this time. That makes sense too.

“Look, it has a friend!” Grantaire exclaims, tugging at his hand to pull him a bit over to the left. “I bet they have lots of fun here!”

As Enjolras turns to look at them (he had been distracted by Courf’s loud singing of a song about pirates), one the okapis disappears in the thick of the trees.

“Actually,” ‘Ferre pipes up, “okapis usually like to be alone unless they’re mating. It says on the information thing.” He points to the sign covered in text and big words that only ‘Ferre can read right now.

“Oh, cool, that wasn’t in the book, thanks ‘Ferre!” Grantaire replies, bouncing on his feet, before focusing his attention back on the lone okapi. Enjolras notes that it might be one Grantaire’s favourite animals and tries to make sure to remember to tell Dad to help him write it down when he gets home.

“D’ya wanna keep looking at the okapi, R? Or d’ya wanna go over there and see what else there is?”  He asks, pointing down the path where another group has gone.

“Is it okay if we stay here longer?” is the hopeful reply as he breaks his gaze away from the animal to look him in the eyes.

The ninth time is on a field trip.

Enjolras smiles. “Of course. They’re really pretty, maybe we’ll be able to see another one.” He would rather keep going to see if they can spot one of the tigers (he likes all kinds of cats, but especially the big ones), but he knows that Grantaire will enjoy it if they stay for just a bit longer. If that isn’t a good reason, he doesn’t know what else is.

Grantaire lets out a quiet gasp as he cranes his head to the right. “I think that’s the baby one, my dad told me that a baby one was born last year and ooh, it’s so cute, look!” He covers his mouth in his excitement and also to prevent himself from squealing, probably. Grantaire does that sometimes, like a little mouse.

Enjolras follows his gaze and oh, there’s a smaller one just behind the bushes over there. “Yeah, it is,” he remarks, looking over at Grantaire’s delighted expression.

***

“It’s the lions!” Enjolras shouts, running towards the enclosure, dragging Grantaire along with him as the rest of their group trails behind them. “Courf, ‘Ferre, Monty, look!”

As he dashes towards them, however, he trips over an adult’s foot and lands on his knees, scraping them in the process.

Grantaire, having not let go of his hand, is immediately crouching beside him. “Enj, are you alright?” he asks, concern laced in his voice as the rest of the group hurries over to their fallen friend.

He resists the urge to sniffle. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he replies in a small voice, gingerly standing up to examine his knees. There’s a little bit of blood and they sting a little, but it doesn’t look too serious.

‘Ferre’s dad rushes over and assesses his injuries. “Here, I have a first aid kit in my backpack, I’ll help clean you up over on a bench. Everyone, follow me.” he orders, all cool and calm and under control.

Now it’s Grantaire’s turn to lead him, bringing him over to the nearest bench, which is luckily unoccupied. “‘Ferre’s dad is gonna fix you up, good as new, yeah?” he assures him, his grip firm and solid on his hand.

As ‘Ferre’s dad inspects the scrapes, Grantaire kisses him on the cheek because that’s what his (before) mom used to do (his Dad doesn’t do it, usually, but sometimes) and he can feel his face redden a little because _oh, Grantaire kissed him_ _on the cheek_ , and his knees don’t hurt quite as much anymore. Grantaire does it again and smiles at him and it’s like he’s forgotten about the fall altogether.

After he’s all patched up, he bounds off the bench (Grantaire still at his side, he wouldn’t leave him behind) and back towards the lions as if the injury had never occurred in the first place. It definitely doesn’t feel like it did, not anymore.

“Enjolras, look! There’s a cub!”

“Where?”

“Right there!”

“Wow, it’s so big already! And look, the dad is over there too!”

“I bet he’s super strong!”

“Monty, hey, don’t even think about climbing on the fence, oh my god, you there, can you please pry that child off the fence?”

* * *

 

“Alright, go through the tuning stuff and warm-up exercises, you know the drill.” The conductor instructs with a dismissive hand wave, sipping her coffee. “We have two weeks, people, so don’t fuck up too much today.” _At least she makes up for her unprofessional attitude with her skill,_ he thinks dryly.

The tenth time is during orchestra practice.

As he tunes, he looks back at Grantaire, who raises his eyebrows and maintains eye contact as they all play slight variations of a concert B flat. When everyone stops to adjust their instruments as necessary, he holds his gaze as he brings his tongue forward on the mouthpiece, almost to the edge of the ligature, then curls it and slowly draws it up the length of the reed. Upon reaching the tip, he retracts his tongue back into his mouth before giving the tip a casual flick.

He just rolls his eyes and turns back around, but he can feel a smile playing on the edge of his lips.

Grantaire, being Grantaire, is not actually part of this class, but their regular second clarinetist was conveniently infected with mono _one month before the concert_ and consequently had a ruptured spleen, among other symptoms of mononucleosis. Therefore, since Grantaire needs to compensate for his poor theory marks and is adequately proficient with the clarinet, he is temporary in the “cult that is orchestra”. (“To be fair, jazz band is also a cult, just less creepy and more awesome because _jazz_ , that’s why.”)

Since he actually had to join jazz band as a temporary member since jazz soloists for his instrument are fairly uncommon and if anyone could do it, it’s probably him, he can confirm that yes, jazz band is also a tight-knit group with practices that may seem strange or dangerous to the outside eye. Mostly because they actually are. He understands some of the appeal, though, but no, he is _not_ participating in any of it, thank you very much. At least orchestra’s more peculiar activities are, for example, completely legal.

Practice goes by as usual – as usually as it can with Grantaire present, anyway, who continues to make increasingly more graphic instrument innuendos throughout class, but what is new – and they are sent off with instructions to practice the oldest piece more, just because we’ve had it longer doesn’t mean you can slack off, I’m looking at you, oboes. Also, they have a woodwind sectional tomorrow evening, no excuses unless you are _dead_ and even then, I’m sure you’ll find a way to show up. There are a few quiet complaints (“Tomorrow’s _Saturday_.”) but no one dares to say any of it to her face and besides, they all know that most of them wouldn’t be practicing enough over the weekend otherwise.

“Hey,” Grantaire says, clarinet case swinging dangerously in his hand, “I still have some theory homework to finish – ” He sends him a half-hearted glare. That had been due two days ago but then again, both of them have been...fairly busy with new developments. A very specific new development, mostly. “ – but would you like to go...” He glances around the room with shifty eyes. Since it’s a Friday afternoon, everyone else has left. “... _practice_?”

“Your room or mine?” he asks as he puts his case inside his backpack, as well as his phone because he’d rather not have that on his person if things continue to go the way they’re going.

“Mine. The roommate's out doing...stuff. Y’know, it’s Friday.”

He pauses, his body stilled. “Drug dealing. Hacking, possibly. Selling alcohol to minors.” he clarifies.

“I can neither confirm nor deny those allegations,” Grantaire says, “and to be fair, ‘Ferre is probably practicing in there right after class like the fucking nerd he is.”

“Not everyone can be as _talented as you_ , R.”

“True, true. Now, let’s focus on the task at hand, shall we?”

Upon leaving the room, they take the steps two at a time. He gives a brief apology when Grantaire’s case nearly decapitates a violinist.

***

The door of the practice room closes behind them with a resounding _click_ and Grantaire...well, an expression that lascivious would not generally be referred to as a smile.

“I’m not sure if I saw what you did earlier during practice...care to demonstrate again?” The words are out of his mouth before he realises what they are, but Grantaire flashes a wicked grin and shoves him against a soundproof wall.

“I would recommend watching more carefully this time, then.”

There is a lot of tongue involved as well as roaming, possessive fingers, exploring territory both new and old, mostly familiar but not familiar enough. He has discovered that Grantaire has a serious oral fixation (of course he does, but emphasis on _serious_ ) and that the things he does to his neck (among other places) send shivers down his spine. Grantaire is quite sensitive to touch in general, so his trained fingers elicit unfamiliar but extremely satisfying sounds. Not unfamiliar for long, he hopes.

“It appears that our musical abilities serve other purposes,” he muses into the crook of Grantaire’s neck, receiving an amused snort in response.

Before long, pleasure rips through him, overriding all sensations but the hands anchoring him down, keeping him on solid ground. Grantaire is significantly more vocal and his grip of steel will probably leave marks on his skin. He is only mildly surprised when he realises that he doesn’t mind.

Later, when they are curled up together on the floor, his phone vibrates in his backpack on the other side of the room. Grantaire exhales and begrudgingly begins to move away from him. Before he can get very far, however, he places a hand on his face, brushes his spectacularly unruly curls out of his eyes, and presses a kiss to his lips. As he does so, he fumbles for his hand, curious green eyes watching him all the while, and eventually clasps it with his own.

One side of his mouth quirks up in a smile.

“It doesn’t matter.”

* * *

 

There is no last time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For grantaered @ tumblr, for whom the first section was a birthday present that proceeded to spiral out of control, basically. Check her out, she's rad (but not like that, unless you really want to).
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ kiptonne; see you on the flip side.


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